


The Alien Concept of "Mother" - A Dissertation on the Term's Concupiscent Utilization

by Querel (Rednaelo)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Mommy Kink, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:39:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rednaelo/pseuds/Querel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kankri and his mommy kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Alien Concept of "Mother" - A Dissertation on the Term's Concupiscent Utilization

**Author's Note:**

> Aheh. <33 I wrote this sleep deprived while I was at work and it was sooooo worth it. <3
> 
> Big thank you to someone special~ <3 What a delicious muse you make.
> 
> Also, I'm doing a [giveaway](http://laughsassinquerel.tumblr.com/post/56178547311/querels-200-follower-giveaway-limbo-from-playdead) on my tumblr at the moment so please go check it out!
> 
> -Querel

The first requirement is that you are not allowed to speak.  You cannot say anything.  You were given one gag, an alternative gag, and then a hand sign to serve as your ‘safe word,’ something you have never used once.

The second rule is that you are not allowed on top of her unless she allows it. ‘Because you’re the wriggler, Kankri,’ is what she told you.  She held your face in her hands and stroked your lips with her thumb when she said it.

You’re the wriggler.  You’re the hatchling. You’re the little grub.  She also calls you baby boy.  Sometimes she calls you grubcake when she thinks you’re being adorable.  She calls you these things gently.

You have something to call her too.  But you don’t get to say it much; you’re not allowed to speak. 

So, one day, while you’re kneeling at her feet with the ball gag in your hands, held up to her like an offering to a goddess, she takes it from you and doesn’t put it on.  You look up at her.  You wonder if you’ve done something wrong.

The gag dissipates into dreamspace and she smiles down at you, petting your hair, running her fingers through it.

“Not today, little grub,” she coos at you.  Her fingers scratch under your chin and you chirr at her contentedly; your eyes slide shut.  Maybe she wants the spider gag instead?  You don’t ask; you’re not allowed to speak.  If she wants it, she will have it.  But she doesn’t.  You look at her once more and tilt your head: a question.  “You’ve been such a good boy lately.  I’m going to give you a break: change one of your rules.”

You breathe slowly.  Stay silent.  Wait for her and enjoy her claws scratching gently at your jaw.  She smiles.  Your good behavior pleases her.

“You can say ‘Mama.’  That’s the only word you’re allowed.  Do you understand?”

You nod.  Your heart’s thrumming.  Your blood pools low in your body and you can feel your nook twitching a little.

“Try it out, hatchling,” she encourages you.  You swallow, your throat shifting beneath her fingers.  Your face flushes; you can feel your skin heat.

“Mama,” you call out to her.  You say it like you’re begging.  She beams at you.  She’s so proud.  You’re a good wriggler.  Such a good boy.

“Mama?” you try again, leaning, tilting your chin upwards to her, your lips parting gently.

“You ask me so nicely, of course,” she concedes.  She leans and her lips press against yours.  You lick the ring on her bottom lip before she slips her tongue into your mouth and you melt in her hands.  You like this so much better than the gags.  It thrills you.  Heat spills from the top of your head down your spine and through your entire body.  And you forget yourself and make a move to climb into her lap.

Her hands release.  She pulls away.  Her face is still soft, but disappointed.

“You didn’t get permission,” she tells you.  Your stomach bottoms out.  Oh no, what have you _done_? She’ll change her mind now.  No, you were doing so well, you don’t want to put the gag back on!  Your breath quickens; you might be panicking.

“Mama,” you plead.  Your fingers bunch desperately in her skirt.  She just shakes her head and clicks her tongue at you.

“You know the rules, little grub,” she says, patting your hip gently.  You swallow.

You’ve taken to wearing what Porrim…Mama calls ‘sensible pants’ whenever you spend time with her because they’re much easier to take off.  Even so, your hands shake when you undo the button and pull down the zipper.  The pants fall around your ankles and you’re left standing in your underwear for a moment.  When you pull those down too, you can see the reddish stain on the fabric and you know she notices.  You clench, more slurry running down the insides of your thighs.  Mama hates it when you stain your clothes.

You look at her face and find her soberly looking back at you, full of pity.  She knows you can’t help it.  You can’t help it, yes, but that doesn’t excuse you from discipline.  She reaches a hand toward you.

“Come here, wriggler,” she says.  You obey, of course, stepping over your shed clothes, one hand to take hers, the other clutching tensely at the hem of your sweater, the one she made for you herself.  She guides you to her side and you bend your knees and lean forward until you’re laid over her lap.  You fist your hands in her skirt and she draws up your sweater to make sure she has you perfectly bare.  Your bulge nudges against her thigh.

Her hand rubs tenderly against your rear—an apology—before it vanishes and then crack hard against your skin.  You squeal like the hatchling you are, eyes scrunching shut and your body jarring with tension.

“If you forget your rules,” she tells you, her voice terribly soothing in contrast to the sharp slap she delivers to your backside, “I will be less inclined to be lenient with them.”  She hits you again and the sound is different, her hand is wet.  She slides her fingers between the lips of your nook before rearing back and spanking you once more.

“Mama!” you whimper against her thigh.  Your legs are shaking and you’re crying even though you don’t hurt nearly enough for it.  She smacks you one last time and then rubs the back of your thigh which is your cue to stand again.  You lever yourself up from her lap with knocking knees and soaking thighs, shivering.  Your bulge has left a slippery trail on her leg and she pretends not to notices it, eying your bulge itself as it writhes between your legs.

“Have you learned your lesson?” she asks you mildly, gaze flicking up to you.  You nod. “There’s a good boy.  Come here, now.”  She takes your face in her hands and kisses you soft on the lips.  A sob chokes in your throat and tears slip down your cheeks like the genetic material that drools down your trembling legs.  “Climb onto my lap, baby boy.”

She pulls back the slit of her dress and you shamelessly stare at the curl of her bulge as it slides out to touch yours when you straddle her.  Your shudder and don’t even have three seconds to settle before she’s invading you.  Your mouth falls open and you _whine_ with pleasure: a noise that you’re used to being stifled by the ball gag or mutated by the spider gag.  This sound makes you flush to the very tips of your ears and down your neck.

Mama’s bulge curls and squirms inside you and your nook responds with clenches and twitches, your hips rocking ever slightly while your own bulge wraps around her wrist and throbs.  You clutch her shoulders.  Moan.  She just hums at you, pleased with you.  You open your eyes to gaze at her face and find her smiling.

“Give Mama a kiss,” she says to you.  You feel her slip partway out of you as you lurch forward and haphazardly mash your lips against hers.  She chuckles against you, takes your face in hand and takes the lead from you.  The kiss becomes another way for her to fill you, for her to fuck you.  You make desperate keening noises into her mouth.  She sucks on your tongue and you’re helpless.

Inside you, her bulge struggles and flicks against the aching nerves inside you and you rapidly lose all control.

“Mama, Mama, Mama…!”

You’re screaming for her when you come.  And when she answers in her orgasm—she’s so elegant about it—you watch, breathless, as her eyes slide shut and her smile widens.  And out comes the most lovely sigh of satisfaction and pleasure: a chord of beautiful music falling over and over again from her lips.  You love her sounds and you love her heat and wetness and color inside you and she just purrs against you.  You purr back.

Her bulge slips out of your nook and you clench tight for a few moments while she kisses you.  The dreamspace shifts; her dress vanishes, as does your sweater and your both drift gently down into a conjured ablution trap.

“It’s alright now,” she coaxes, caressing your horns with her careful fingers.  Your muscles relax.  Genetic material spills out of you in a swirl of color and with it, you sink down to lie against her body.  The trap drains your remnants away and fills with steaming hot water.  Your breathing evens out.  “You did wonderfully, Kankri.”

She said your name: you’re allowed to speak now.

You nuzzle your head between her breasts; your hand curls around a tendril of her hair and you pull it towards your mouth, flicking its satin strands soothingly across your lips as you sigh,

“Mama….”


End file.
